


Better Off Together

by MissDavis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (off-screen and no it's not Mary), Bickering, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Multi, Retirement, Retirementlock, taking care of each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:27:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6311494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if everyone lived happily ever after?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this long before s4 aired, though I never really thought this sort of happy ending would be possible for all 3 of these characters. But now it is, right here in this fic! 
> 
> Since I started this so long ago, the Watson daughter is named Alice, but I don't feel like changing it so I'm not.

"John."

"Mm?" He was looking out the bay window so she said his name again and the second time he noticed. "What is it, Mary?" He turned away from the admittedly bucolic view and smiled at her, that relaxed, slightly goofy smile that only she and Sherlock ever got to see.

"Here," she said. "This place. We need to be here."

The smile faltered a little, as if he didn't know quite what to think. "Well, good thing we are here, then, love." He lowered himself to sit on the padded window seat and patted the cushion next to him. Mary folded herself into the space beside him, snugging up against his shoulder and taking his hand in hers.

They had the house to themselves at the moment; Sherlock was still outside, talking to the estate agent about honey variations or some such nonsense. That wasn't fair of her, she knew—every indication she'd seen from him told her this wasn't just a passing phase. He really did intend to retire to the country to raise bees, and this house held much more promise than any of the others he had looked at. She reached for John's hand and said, "We need to stay here, John. With Sherlock. This cottage is perfect."

John blinked at her, once, a very Sherlockian expression on his face—they'd picked up each other's mannerisms over the years. All three of them had. Every time Mary found herself quietly sniffing in rage or steepling her hands beneath her chin while she thought, she was reminded of just how thoroughly they had entwined themselves with each other. 

John let go of her hand and turned to look outside again, bringing his leg up so he sat sideways on the seat. He raised one hand to the window and traced his finger along the wooden frame where it met the glass. It needed to be scraped and painted; she could see at least three layers of old color, cracked and faded with time. "I have been thinking of cutting back my hours at work," he said.

"I know." She didn't press him; he would reach the same conclusion she had, she knew. Without Sherlock in London there was no reason for her and John to stay. She let him stare out the window for a while, across the autumn-dried field that stretched as far as they could see, and then set her hand on his thigh, above his bad knee. "Come on, get up before your leg locks up from sitting like that."

They took another stroll around the cottage while Sherlock was still outside, this time looking more closely at how practical it would be for the three of them. The kitchen was big enough, if they turned the breakfast nook into a chemistry lab, of course, though there was only one loo, which wasn't ideal.

They ended up in the back hall; John leaned against the door that led outside, the afternoon sun glinting through its small glazed window making his hair look almost blond again. "How do we bring it up to Sherlock?" 

Mary rolled her eyes at him. "Please. I'm sure he knew before we did. That's probably why he asked us to come along today." She grabbed John's hand and tugged him out the back door. The estate agent was nowhere to be seen but they found Sherlock kneeling in the midst of a large, overgrown plot of either dead weeds or dead wildflowers, peering at the spent blooms.

He glanced up at them as they approached and then bent his head to the flower stalks again. He pinched open a seed pod with his right hand and emptied its contents into his left, then rose to his feet with considerably less grace than he would have a few years ago. He stared at John and Mary for several long moments, then scuffed at the dirt with the toe of one expensive city shoe before dropping the seeds to the ground. He sighed and smiled, a combination Mary found not surprising in the least. "I'll want my own bedroom," he said, which was exactly what Mary would've suggested for him. The three of them in one bed only worked when they were all awake.

Sherlock swept past them toward the house, coat and scarf flapping in the brisk wind. When they didn't follow immediately he called back over his shoulder. "You two can have the room on the ground floor—I know the stairs would be rough on John's knee."

Mary glanced over at John and then let go of his hand to jog ahead of him, after Sherlock. "We're not going to steal the master bedroom away from you. This is your retirement cottage."

"Apparently it's now our retirement cottage." He sighed again but the raised eyebrows gave him away. He had planned this from the start, but been too shy—or too afraid of rejection—to ask. 

She reached out to take Sherlock's hand, which was gloveless and freezing. She rubbed it between her own until John caught up with them and they all three huddled together, arms loosely hooked as they faced each other in a triangle. Sherlock tossed his hair back from his face and looked down at them. "I'll take over the whole upstairs, both rooms."

John cleared his throat and Mary thought he was going to voice her own thought about needing a guest room, but instead he said, "We can put a sofa bed in the living room and Alice and Max can sleep there when they visit."

Sherlock glanced back at the cottage, then looked over Mary's head at the flower patch that trailed off into open field. "This place will be rather full of people."

"Oh, Sherlock. We don't have to—" she started.

"Maybe Alice and Max could stay at that bed and breakfast we passed on the way here," John interjected.

Sherlock looked back and forth between them several times and then broke into a smile. "No, having other people here will be good for me. People I like. I was worried it might be too quiet here after London, but—" He waved his hand at them.

"Oh, we're the loud ones now?" John looked at Mary, eyes comically widened. His nose was starting to turn red from the cold. She didn't know how Sherlock had managed to stay out here for nearly an hour. 

"I'm cold," Mary said. "Let's go see if that gas fireplace works. We'll need to check it out before we put an offer in, anyway." 

Sherlock and John let go of each other so they could walk, but Mary tightened her grip on both of their elbows and guided them carefully up the path to their new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is probably going to be a semi-longish work, but I will be very slow to write and post it since I am currently in the middle of another WIP. I'm also not sure if it's going to end up being mature or for more general audiences, but I figure I should probably go with mature since my writing has a tendency to end up being a bit more graphic than I intend sometimes. So yeah, basically, I wrote this and posted it but have no idea what the rest of the story will bring. I hope you'll join me on the journey to find out!
> 
> (Psst: If you looking for more explicit Johnlockary try my [Could Be Fun](http://archiveofourown.org/series/164042) series.)


	2. Chapter 2

"That's the last of them, I think," John said. Mary took the box from him—it had ended up in Sherlock's bedroom even though it was clearly labeled "Kitchen"—and John dropped down heavily to sit on the bottom step of the staircase. He winced and stretched his legs out in front of him. Mary frowned in sympathy, setting the box on the floor. They'd spent all day unpacking and moving things from room to room in the cottage, trying to get all their possessions to the right place. Combining two households into one hadn't made it any easier, especially given the fact that Sherlock had packed up the Baker Street flat himself. Mary was still a little afraid to open any of the boxes with his writing on them.

She sat down on the step next to John and reached over to massage the back of his neck, though she knew that wasn't where the pain was. "You get to try out the new bathtub first. See if those spa jets work."

"Mm." He leaned into her touch and then turned his head to kiss her.

"Hey. Enough of that. And you're blocking the way to my bedroom." Sherlock's voice was mock-stern but when she and John broke apart to look up at him, Mary could see the moment where his expression softened. "John, why didn't you say how much your knee was bothering you? I could've done more of the hauling boxes and left you to organize the kitchen."

"Ha." John stuck out his bad leg and tapped Sherlock's foot with his own. "As if you'd let me organize the kitchen."

"I'm organizing the kitchen," Mary said. She didn't even know why that would be a question. The three of them didn't follow very many traditional gender-based roles, but when it came to cooking and baking she was definitely the one who did the bulk of the work. Which was probably part of the reason they had all survived long enough to retire to the countryside.

"No, Mary, you don't understand. Sherlock has a system, you see." John was laughing even as he rubbed at his sore knee.

"Oh, shut up. Just because I like to have things sensibly classified." Sherlock stepped closer, as if he was considering climbing over the two of them to get up the stairs.

"He has a system, except not really, because it changes pretty regularly. No, I take that back—it changes irregularly."

Sherlock loomed over John and then tipped his head down to speak. "Would you like me to draw that bath for you now? Maybe you need someone to help you into the tub? I've experience bathing the elderly, you know." Sherlock had helped his mother care for his father in his last few years; Mary had been shocked not by his tenderness but by the fact that he didn't mind when other people found out about it. He really had changed in the years since she had known him: softened and matured and grown that sexy silver hair.

"Shut up." John pulled his legs in, defensive now. "You were the one who decided to retire first, don't forget."

"Early retirement. So I could enjoy the remaining years before you slipped completely into dotage."

"I'll give you dotage," John said, and reached up to grab the banister and haul himself to his feet. He took a backward step up onto the first stair riser and then pulled Sherlock toward him. An equal-height kiss: no, John was a little taller. They'd both lost a bit of height in recent years, but Mary thought Sherlock's decline was more pronounced, probably because John's diet was better. Well, she'd keep Sherlock fed up better now that they all lived together. 

She stood up from the stairs, taking a step into the foyer, away from John and Sherlock. Often when they kissed she would want to join in, and they would let her—she'd find one large hand pulling her in close and a smaller one slipping beneath the hem of her shirt. Today she just wanted to watch; she was exhausted and cozy and happy and in love and so, so glad they were all here together. 

Except now that she was watching she could see that John's knee really was acting up tonight. He wasn't putting any weight on it, and as the kiss went on he leaned more and more against Sherlock, who slipped his arms around John's waist to support him. "I'll try to find the bath towels," she said, and let her left hand graze both of their hips as she slipped past them down the hall.

The jets in the whirlpool tub did in fact work, though John was the only one who got to try it that night. There was probably room for two of them in it—well, John and Mary, definitely, and Sherlock would fit with either of them because he was still annoyingly flexible. No, that thought was a lie, Mary had to admit. Sherlock was still delightfully flexible, and while the three of them wouldn't fit all together in the tub, Sherlock could've certainly climbed in with John and she would have been more than happy to watch. But no, instead they all crowded into the bathroom and John stripped down and got into the bath and then for some reason Sherlock opened the cabinet over the sink and started pulling out all of the toiletries that Mary had already arranged. 

"What are you doing? I gave you the top shelf. You're the tallest." 

"I keep my toothbrush on the sink. Not on the shelf."

"That's disgusting," Mary said. "You're keeping it in the cabinet now."

"It is not disgusting. How is it disgusting? It dries faster in the open air. Have you seen my toothbrush holder? I think it was in a box labeled 'Personal Items, SH.' It was marked with a red pen and one of the top corners of the box was crumpled."

Mary didn't let herself get distracted by the specificity of Sherlock's packing details. "The toilet is right next to the sink. Even if you close the lid—and I know you don't—every time you flush some of the water is expelled into the air and lands on your toothbrush." She shivered at the thought.

"That's ridiculous." He set the toothbrush down on the edge of the basin and resumed pawing through the rest of the items in the cabinet.

"She's right, you know," John chimed in from the tub. "It is more hygienic to keep it in the cabinet."

Sherlock took a step back from the sink so he could glare at John. "Don't take her side. You kept your toothbrush out on the sink when you lived at Baker Street."

John shrugged and slid down until the water lapped at his ears. "I didn't say I cared. I just said she was right about it being more hygienic. But a few germs won't kill us at this point."

Eventually Mary and Sherlock reached an agreement on most of the items in the cabinet, though when Sherlock started to fill the now-empty top shelf with pill bottles, she drew the line. "You can't keep medications in the bathroom. The heat and humidity make them degrade."

Sherlock scooped up two prescription bottles in his hand and gestured toward the open cabinet. "It's a medicine cabinet. You keep medicine in it."

"No. It's a bathroom cabinet, and we're going to keep the medicine in the cupboard in the hall."

Sherlock grabbed more bottles—why were his hands so big? Why did watching him use his big hands turn her on even in the middle of a domestic?—and started to line them up in the cabinet again. "You said the top shelf was mine and this is what I am keeping on it."

"I'm not using medicine that's been stored in a hot, humid bathroom. I—Are you lining those up by color?" 

"No." Sherlock paused and looked at the bottles. "Maybe. How should I line them up?"

"By type of medication. But not in here."

"By frequency of use," John said. "I'll let you two fight it out as to where, though."

"You are no help," Mary said, and tried to reach past Sherlock to take the bottles out, but of course his reach was much longer than hers and he was able to block her access to the cabinet. She narrowed her eyes and then changed tactics, pressing up close behind him instead, and running her hands up and down along his forearms as he leaned on the edge of the sink. "If you let me have my way now I'll let you have your way later on."

She couldn't see his expression since the mirrored door to the cabinet was open, but she could picture the exact dimension of his scowl. "You'll do that anyway," he said.

"Oh, really?" She stepped back away from him and looked over at John, eyebrows raised. "Someone's got awful cocky just because we've moved in with him."

Sherlock turned and leaned back against the sink. "I wasn't planning to have to play this card so soon, but since retiring to this cottage was my idea in the first place, and I allowed you two to join me, then I think that I—"

"Oh, you—no. Nope." Mary crossed her arms and took another step away from him, her back brushing the wall of the small room. "You don't get to do that. We made sure that we were not imposing by moving in with you—you said you wouldn't have it any other way. You said—"

"Would you two cut it out, already?" John dropped both hands into the tub with a splash. "It's our first day of living together—let's at least pretend we can get along." He shook his head and then stood up, leaning to reach for one of the towels folded over the bar. He got it halfway off the bar and then let out a little grunt of pain and let go, catching himself on the side of the tub as his right leg buckled.

"John!" Sherlock was closer to the tub than Mary; his hand shot out and gripped John's upper arm but John predictably shrugged out of his grasp. 

"I'm fine. Just sat in the tub too long and then tried to stand up too fast." He bent each leg in turn, grimacing with the movement, and then sat on the side of the tub to dry off. "You can fetch me a couple of ibuprofen if you're that concerned."

"Of course. Oh look, they're right here in the medicine cabinet." Sherlock picked up the box and turned to give Mary a smug look before popping two tablets out of the blister pack. He looked around and frowned. "I think the bathroom cups ended up in the kitchen. I'll get one." He closed his fist around the pills and squeezed past Mary out the door.

Once he was gone, Mary crossed the room to sit on the edge of the tub next to John, who was still toweling himself dry. "Did you do that on purpose?" she murmured.

John let the towel droop into his lap and widened his eyes. "You think I would fake an injury just to get you two to stop fighting?"

"Well—"

"Mm, Mary, now I think that sounds more like something you or Sherlock would do. Not me." He stuck both legs out, feet dripping onto the bath mat, and pointed to his right knee. "See? It's swollen."

Mary ran her fingers along his damp thigh, stopping just above the knee. It was rather puffy compared to his left leg. "The bath probably didn't help. You should ice it, instead." She splayed her whole hand over his knee, not squeezing but gentle, knowing her cool fingers must feel good against his bath-warmed skin. She looked up to meet his eyes and said, "So you didn't fake an injury. You just played it up a bit, hmm?" 

John smiled and leaned over to kiss her, getting her blouse and the side of her jeans wet in the process. She laughed and pushed him away just as Sherlock came back with a glass of water and a rather sensible solution to their debate. "I'll keep my medicines in here. You can keep yours in the hallway."

John nodded. "Good idea. We've got duplicates of all the over-the-counter meds anyway. And this way I can keep an eye on your drugs."

Sherlock pursed his lips at that but didn't object. He pulled a few items off the top shelf—John's arthritis prescriptions, a package of paracetamol, some of the allergy pills—and then picked up a half-empty tube of KY jelly. "I already put the rest of the lube and all the sex toys in John's nightstand."

"Fine." Mary stood up to give John space to finish drying off. "Except the butterfly and the glass dildo go in my nightstand."

Sherlock closed the cabinet door and then gave her a questioning look. "I thought the glass one went in the refrigerator." 

She rolled her eyes. "I'm sure you're familiar with John's number one refrigerator rule."

Sherlock sighed and joined Mary to recite, "Only food goes in the refrigerator."

John balled up his wet towel and threw it at Sherlock, who caught it and shook it out before hanging it neatly on the towel bar. Mary picked up John's t-shirt, pyjama bottoms and pants and handed them to him. He tucked the clothes under his arm and shook his head. "Too crowded in here. I'll get dressed in the bedroom." He limped past Mary and Sherlock, naked, his skin still glistening from the bath. He paused in the doorway to look back over his shoulder and add, "Unless anyone wants to stop me." He flashed a smile and then left the room, leaving Mary and Sherlock to stare at each other. 

"I was going to have a shower now," Mary said.

Sherlock nodded. "I just planned to go upstairs and collapse in exhaustion in my own bed." 

Mary followed his gaze as he looked down at the tube of KY. Neither of them moved or said anything for a moment, then they both reached for it at the same time. Sherlock got there first—Mary closed her hand around his wrist and they dragged each other out of the bathroom and down the hall after John.

Much later, after Sherlock had retired to his own room and John had drifted off to sleep next to her, Mary lay in bed, marveling at this new stage of her life, at all the days yet to come. She expected a fight about how to organize the cooking utensils and knew she would be kept up late by the violin and woken too early by a man who still hadn't shed his military sleep habits thirty years on, but she wouldn't trade any of it for the world; she was exactly where she wanted to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My tumblr ](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically I long ago gave up attempts to try to sound British but for some reason I still spell pajamas pyjamas. But yogurt is not yoghurt. I can't explain it, sorry.

One morning a few days later Mary was in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, when Sherlock appeared in the doorway and said cryptically, "You should be the one to speak to him." 

She looked up from the news screen she'd been reading and squinted at him through her bifocals—putting her contacts in before a cup of tea had seemed like far too much effort. He was wearing a faded blue dressing gown over a ratty white t-shirt and a pair of too-short pyjama bottoms that she hadn't seen in years. "When did you steal those from John?" she asked.

"He left them at Baker Street the time you took Alice to Scotland for that mother-daughter retreat. And right now he's in the bedroom trying to figure out when I reorganized all his socks, and you need to talk to him soon."

There was only one thing he could be referring to, Mary knew. John had long ago passed the point where he could pretend the arthritis in his knee wasn't a problem, but he still adamantly denied that it was severe enough to warrant anything more than an occasional dose of prescription painkillers. It had been nearly two years since he'd seen a doctor about it, although it was obvious the condition had worsened since then. "You talk to him. You're the one he listens to," she told Sherlock.

He raised an eyebrow and leaned against the doorframe. "Me? You're the one he married."

"The last time I suggested he go to the doctor he accused me of not trusting his medical skills. You talk to him. You're the one who got him to turn his entire life upside down and move out here to the middle of nowhere."

"I believe it was your idea—" Sherlock began, but Mary cut him off with a shake of her head. John had emerged from the bedroom, fully dressed and limping, as he had been for days now. Sherlock turned to allow him space to step past him into the kitchen. 

"Morning," Mary said, as John opened the fridge and began to rummage through it. He grunted and emerged with a container of yogurt and a bottle of orange juice, which he set on the table so he could put his hands on his hips and scowl at her and Sherlock.

"You know," he said, "I may be the oldest and have crap knees but I still have better hearing than either one of you."

Mary tipped her head, feigning innocence, and Sherlock scoffed and joined her at the table, using one bare foot to push the remaining chair out for John. "Then you'll have heard that we have nothing but concern for you and your health."

"Hm." John grabbed a glass from the cupboard and then opened the silverware drawer. "The spoons and forks are backwards," he said. 

"Yet I'm the one who's fussy about how the kitchen is organized," Sherlock said to Mary.

"I'm just pointing it out," John said, and dropped down heavily into the chair, yogurt spoon in hand. "And anyway you don't have to argue over who needs to convince me to call the doctor. I got the name of someone local before we even moved. I'll call after breakfast." He peeled back the cover of his yogurt and frowned. "One of you needs to go out to the shops and buy some more food, though. I can't live on yogurt and juice."

John was as good as his word, and scheduled a doctor's appointment for the next week. He took it easy for the next few days, letting Mary and Sherlock do most of the errands and inevitable re-arranging that came with settling into a new home. Which ended up being quite a bit more work than Mary remembered from the last time she had moved, but of course she'd never lived with Sherlock before. 

She hadn't counted on the clutter. She'd known about it—of course she had. She'd certainly spent enough time in the Baker Street flat, but somehow that had never translated into the realization that moving in with Sherlock meant learning to live with all of his...stuff. Junk. Literal rubbish. He apparently hadn't bothered to sort through what he owned so he could get rid of what he didn't need before the move. He simply boxed everything up and brought it with him, and now they had to figure out how to fit everything into the cottage and still have room for three people to live. Left to his own devices, Sherlock probably would have used half-unpacked cardboard boxes as end tables and broken electronics as accent pieces, but Mary wanted to at least try to make the cottage look like it was inhabited by fully functional adults. 

She didn't understand how Sherlock's mess didn't seem to bother John. He was so neat himself; he never left anything of his own out of place and tended to minimalism when it came to material possessions. How on earth had he put up with living with Sherlock for as long as he had? And now he slipped right back into it, not even batting an eye when one box that migrated to the kitchen proved to contain nothing but poorly-preserved insect carcasses and a yellowed notecard with the inscription "to be catalogued."

After a couple of days of nagging and threatening to unpack for him produced no noticeable results, Mary stumbled upon a new strategy. They needed to paint, and she agreed to let Sherlock choose the colors if he would unpack and help de-clutter the first floor. He moved most of his less visually-pleasing belongings upstairs, which was fine with her—he could do what he wanted in his rooms, as long as there was nothing too horribly toxic and he left enough clear space on the floor so he could walk without tripping and breaking a hip. She didn't need two hobbled men to have to look after. 

He chose a surprisingly neutral grey for the living room, a little darker than she would've picked but perfectly acceptable given the plentiful light that came in through the south-facing windows. Once they got all their pictures hung and put all the furniture in place, not much of the walls would be visible anyway. 

The morning of John's doctor's visit, Mary laid out old sheets to protect the floor and taped around the edges of the windows but didn't go so far as to open the can of paint. "Are you sure you don't want one of us to go with you?" she asked, as John prepared to leave for his appointment. She had already changed into her old painting clothes, but she didn't mind changing back if he wanted her to. Or she could go out like this—she didn't really feel the need to dress to impress anyone. Let everyone in this new town think of her as an old woman with questionable fashion sense. Who cared? She was reinventing herself, yet again, only this time by choice, and not alone.

John shook his head. "No. I want you two to finish all the painting while I'm gone. I hate painting."

"We know. You've said repeatedly." Sherlock clattered down the stairs, decked out in what had to be a twenty-year-old pair of jogging trousers and one of John's old t-shirts. It flashed his stomach when he moved his arms. He stepped over a pile of magazines he had left at the bottom of the stairs. Magazines! Where did he even find printed magazines in this day and age? "Are you sure you don't need one of us to drive you?" 

"Yes, I'm sure!" John frowned, presumably at the force of his own answer, then said in a more reasonable tone. "I told you. Driving doesn't hurt. At least not any more than, you know. Sitting and standing and walking." He twitched his lip in frustration and sighed.

Sherlock crossed the room to give John a quick embrace and a kiss on the forehead, betraying the tenderness he normally kept hidden. "Maybe this doctor will have some new treatment suggestions for you."

"I doubt it," John said, and Mary knew he was probably right. If there had been any recent breakthrough treatments for osteoarthritis of the knee, he would have known about them already.

John left and Mary and Sherlock started painting. Sherlock could be precise when he needed to, but he didn't have the patience for detail work, so he used the roller on the open stretches of wall while Mary worked around the edges of the windows and trim. 

Once they finished the first coat they took a break in the kitchen, where Mary nibbled on the heel of a day-old loaf of bread she had baked and watched Sherlock fiddle with the microscope he'd set up in the corner. He didn't have any beehives yet, but he'd started studying different local varieties of honey. She loved to see him like this, so involved with what he was doing that he forgot anyone else was in the room; the ridiculous paint-stained outfit he was wearing only slightly lessened the effect.

She finished the last of the bread and started to tidy up the dishes from breakfast when she heard Sherlock muttering to himself. "Where did I put—"

"On your head," she told him, without turning to look.

A heartbeat of silence passed before he cleared his throat and said, "Thank you."

She glanced over her shoulder in time to see him pull his reading glasses from the tangle of his hair and settle them over his eyes so he could make a notation on his spreadsheet. "Shut up," he said.

"I didn't say anything," she responded, and turned back to the sink to hide her grin. 

He muttered some more, but she could hear the humor in his tone. They passed a few more minutes in comfortable silence, which made it all the more startling when the front door suddenly slammed hard enough to shake the cottage's foundation.

Sherlock lifted his head from the microscope and looked over at Mary. "You can talk to him."

"Oh, no, we're in this together," she said, wiping her wet hands on the towel by the sink. She grabbed him by the arm to try to haul him from his stool. He resisted for a moment and then gave in, once more removing his glasses from the top of his head and setting them on the table before following her out into the living room.

John was standing in the middle of the room, his back to Mary and Sherlock, apparently glaring at the unlit, sheet-shrouded fireplace.

"What happened?" Mary asked, pushing aside the small trickle of fear that whispered that at their age even the most innocuous of doctor visits could quickly turn catastrophic. 

"Nothing," he said, only the tightening of his left fist betraying him. He shifted his glare from the fireplace to his armchair, which had been moved into the center of the room so they could paint.

"Okay," she said. "So what did the doctor say?"

He took a few halting steps across the room and then eased himself down into his chair with a sigh. He straightened his leg out in front of him, scowled at it, then bent it again to sit normally. "It's bone-on-bone. I'm scheduled for surgery next month. Total knee replacement."

"Oh. Oh, that's soon."

"Yep. Not much of a backlog of patients out here, I guess."

"So, that's good, though." She still didn't understand why he was upset. He'd known he was going to need to have the knee replaced eventually, and getting it over with sooner rather than later shouldn't have bothered him. It was a fairly straightforward procedure; he most likely wouldn't even need general anesthesia, only a spinal. And knee replacements often lasted a good twenty years, so he wouldn't have to worry about it again until he was in his late 80s. 

John made a grunting sound and crossed his arms over his chest. "One of you missed a spot over the mantel."

"That was Mary," Sherlock said, and stepped past her to stare down at John, who didn't look up at him. "Why are you so—oh."

"Sherlock—" she began, but there was no stopping him once he had started down a deductive path. 

"Did you leave the walking stick at the office, or did you at least carry it out to the car with you?"

John still didn't meet Sherlock's gaze. "I'm not using it."

"Left it in the car, then. Hmm."

"Shut up. I don't need it. I'm not some old man in danger of falling."

Mary slipped past Sherlock so she was standing right next to John's chair. "Come on, John. It's not just for that. A walking cane will help take weight off your leg, so it won't hurt as much." He should've been using one long before now, but he'd refused to even consider the idea.

"I'll fetch it for you," Sherlock said, and darted across the room and out the front door before John could stop him. 

Mary sat down on the arm of John's chair and put her hand on his shoulder, caressing the bit of bare skin above the collar of his shirt with her thumb. "It's really not that bad," she said, but John just shook his head. 

"I still remember when his main concern was getting me to stop using a cane," he said, as Sherlock bounded back into the house, walking stick in hand.

"Oh. It's metal." For some reason Mary had been picturing an old-fashioned wooden cane, even though as a nurse she knew that wasn't the most functional style.

Sherlock lifted the walking stick and ran his hands along its metal shaft. "Bit of a wood fetish, Mary?"

"What? No. I just—"

"Mm-hmm. I see."

"Shut up, Sherlock. You probably want him to skip the knee replacement and get a wooden leg. Like a pirate."

"What? I—"

Mary burst into laughter at Sherlock's scandalized expression. A moment later John joined her, saying, "No, he just likes eyepatches."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and lifted his chin into the air. "And beards. You're not a proper pirate if you don't have a beard."

"Oh, please no." She tightened her fingers on John's shoulder. "No facial hair."

John reached up to pat her hand. "Don't worry. I've no interest in Sherlock's pirate fantasy."

"That's a lie," Sherlock said, and crossed the room to stand directly in front of John's chair. He set the cane down to the side. Its four-point base allowed it to stand on its own; Mary knew that the sensible design probably made John feel even more helpless. She nudged it out of the way with her foot and looked up at Sherlock, willing him to understand that they needed to get John's focus away from this morning's doctor's visit.

Sherlock caught her gaze and gave a brief nod, then dropped to his knees in front of John's chair. 

"Look at you," John said. "How can you still kneel like that? You're nearly as old as I am."

"After your surgery, you'll be able to do this, too." He settled his hands on John's khaki-clad knees and slowly drew them apart.

"Six to eight weeks recovery time. Minimum."

"So by midsummer you'll be on your knees in front of me. You can reciprocate then." He scooted closer, wedging himself between John's legs, and stroked one hand up the front of John's trousers.

"It's the middle of the day," John protested, even as he spread his legs open wider. 

"We've got two more hours before we can start the second coat of paint. How else should we pass the time?"

John shifted in his seat, angling his hips toward Sherlock, and let his head fall back against the chair. 

Mary straddled the arm of the chair so her right thigh was against John's chest and unzipped her paint-spattered jeans. Sherlock always had the best ideas.

"Jesus," John said. "You two are going to kill me."

"You'll die happy," Sherlock said, giving John another stroke before he carefully undid his flies for him.

"True," John said. He reached out and put his hands on Sherlock's head, trying to run his fingers through the curls. "You've got some paint in your hair."

"Good thing it's grey," Mary said. "No one will see it."

Sherlock took one hand away from John's pants to touch his own temple. "My hair is silver, not grey."

"Okay. Whatever you say. As long as I can pull it." John tugged at his hair again, guiding Sherlock's head down. 

Mary watched them for a moment, then kicked John's newly-acquired cane farther away from the chair, adjusted her position so she could drape one leg over Sherlock's shoulder while still leaning against John, and slipped her hand down beneath the waistband of her pants. The three of them might be getting up there in years but they were certainly not too old for a little fun.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm still writing this! I just needed to finish the basketball fic before I let myself work on this again. And our beloved Mr. & Mrs. & Mr. Psychopath are still happily retired together in the country....

John's knee replacement went perfectly—the only complication was the fact that the light sedation he opted to have along with the regional anesthesia made him not only relaxed but much less inhibited than normal. Which wouldn't have been an issue, except that Sherlock managed to talk his way into the recovery room long before any visitors should have been allowed. Mary followed him reluctantly. She wanted to see John just as much as Sherlock did, but she also understood how disruptive it could be to have family members interfering immediately post-op. 

John was delighted that they were there, however; in fact he was so delighted that he thought it was appropriate to let everyone in the room know exactly how he felt about both of them. Repeatedly. The first time John told the nurses how much he loved him, Sherlock blushed bright red. By the fourth or fifth time, Sherlock appeared to be getting annoyed, and when John, his legs still numb, started trying climb out of bed to give him a hug, Mary knew she and Sherlock needed to leave.

She bent over the bed to give him a kiss, then made sure Sherlock gave him one as well. "We'll be back after we eat lunch, love," she said and led a surprisingly compliant Sherlock out of the room. 

He continued to be unusually quiet as they waited in the queue for food in the hospital's canteen. Mary knew he wasn't ashamed of their relationship, but perhaps he'd been embarrassed by John's public display in the hospital room. None of them were the type to go around proclaiming their love for each other in front of strangers, despite all the media speculation about the three of them over the years. 

She chose seats in the corner of the canteen, away from anyone else, and watched Sherlock carry their tray of food to the table. As he set it down, some of the soup he'd ordered sloshed over the side of the bowl. He pulled his hands back quickly, folding them together against his chest. For a moment Mary thought he had burned himself, before she realized that he was trying to stop his hands from shaking, or possibly hide their trembling from her. She should have known that his silence didn't mean he was embarrassed—when had he ever cared what other people thought? 

She stood and went to fetch some napkins, then sat down in the chair next to him, rather than across the table. "You know John's going to be okay, right?" 

He plucked one of the napkins from her hand. "I know."

"Okay. Because you just seem...worried."

She expected some sharp retort to that, but he spent a few moments carefully wiping up the small mess he'd made, then, without turning his head to meet her eyes, said, "He kept forgetting what he'd said to us."

Ah. Of course. That would hit a little too close to home for him. She scooted her chair closer to his. "That's normal. It's from the sedation."

"I know."

Sure he did. "Like when you had your colonoscopy," she said.

"I know," he repeated. Then, "I can barely remember that."

She tried not to laugh out loud. "That's the point. So you're conscious for the procedure but don't remember any details. He'll be fine once it wears off."

"I know." He tore the wet napkin into quarters and then glanced at her. "I know. It's just—"

"We'll go back after lunch and he'll be his normal self again. I promise."

He nodded and picked up his coffee cup to take a gulp, then wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. Mary tried not to think about all the germs that he'd doubtless picked up just from pacing the hospital's halls as they waited for John. "Shouldn't I be the one reassuring you?" he asked.

"You're the worrier," she said, patting him on the arm.

"You're the woman."

She widened her eyes at him. "Oh, are we going to fall back on traditional penis-based roles _now_?"

He blinked at her before smiling and letting his shoulders droop a little. "True. We're probably better off sticking with our usual, non-traditional penis roles at this point, aren't we?"

She nodded. "And I think John will appreciate that once he gets home."

"Not for a few weeks, at least. No strenuous activity."

"Hmm, well." She let herself lean against his shoulder for a moment. "Guess I'm lucky I've got your penis in the meantime, hmm?"

"I've always thought so." 

 

She was right. John was fine that afternoon, though when he came home three days later, hobbling on crutches because he'd refused to use a walking frame, he was considerably less cheerful than he had been immediately post-op.

Mary tried to be understanding, but he was so cranky that nearly every conversation turned into an argument. The meals she cooked were too bland—he wanted something spicy after days of hospital food. The cottage was too warm—did she and Sherlock think he was an old man who needed the heat cranked up in the middle of spring? There was nothing interesting to watch or read or listen to available on any device that they owned, and Sherlock's violin was too loud. By the second day he was home Mary was ready to send him back to hospital, or possibly leave herself.

Sherlock tried to help, but though he had improved in his ability to understand emotional context over the years, he could still sometimes massively misread a situation. He flounced into the living room and draped himself provocatively over the top of the armchair John had settled in. "Need some cheering up?" 

"No." John reached up with one hand and tried to push Sherlock off the back of his chair, grimacing as the movement caused his leg to shift. "I can't do that."

Sherlock slid off the chair and knelt on the floor next to him. "You can't bear weight on your leg, but you can still—" He made a suggestive gesture. 

"Do you honestly think I'm in the mood right now?"

Sherlock wrinkled his brow and glanced over at Mary, who was sitting on the sofa, trying to find a television program they could all agree on. "Would you like to watch us instead?" he asked John.

"No, I don't want to watch you! My leg is killing me and I haven't had a good night's sleep in a week and what about either of those things makes you think I would be in the mood to watch you fuck my wife right now?"

"I thought you might appreciate a distraction. I don't need to fuck her—she and I will do whatever you want—"

"I don't want you to do anything!" John slammed his hands down onto the arms of his chair and raised himself up a few inches, though he didn't try to stand. 

Mary popped up from the sofa and grabbed Sherlock by the arm, pulling him to his feet. She steered him out of the room, into the kitchen. 

Sherlock shook free of her grip, leaning back against the worktop and crossing his arms. "What? He likes to watch."

"When it's his choice, not when it's his only option." Mary sighed. "None of us are going to survive the next month cooped up in here together."

"We won't be cooped up that long. He's supposed to be on his feet daily. Soon he'll be outside walking."

"Yeah, well. Not soon enough." Mary blew out a breath and turned to look out the window over the sink. "Okay. I know he's in pain and can't help being cranky, but you and I need to get away from him for a while. We're going for a walk, just the two of us." 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"He'll be okay by himself. Just a half-hour or so where we're not all breathing down each other's necks."

Sherlock nodded his agreement, then proceeded to return to the living room to fuss over John again. "Here's the book you were reading in hospital, and you've got your charging cords for your phone and tablet, and a glass of water—don't drink it too fast or you'll need to use the loo before we get back."

Mary grabbed her coat and watched from the hallway, grateful at least that if John tried to stand up to punch him, Sherlock would have time to get out of the way. Though if he decided to grab one of his crutches and take a swing while still seated, Sherlock was probably going down.

Sherlock glanced at his watch. "Your next pain pill's not until six o'clock, but we'll be back well before then." 

"Right, because I need _you_ around to help me manage my drugs." 

"All right. Enough." Mary pulled Sherlock's coat from its hook by the door and threw it at him. "John, I know you won't have any problems, but if you do, message us and we'll come right back."

"Fine." John picked up the book Sherlock had left for him and riffled through the pages. "But take your time. It's going to take me a while to change the locks after you leave since I'm not supposed to bend my leg." 

"Oh, fun! It's been ages since I've had to pick a lock." Mary grinned and blew him a kiss.

Once they were outside, she stretched her arms over her head, inhaling the crisp spring air. 

Sherlock glanced back at the house for a moment, then turned to look at Mary. "Of course you've gone all stiff," he said, though she hadn't complained aloud. "You've done nothing but drive back and forth and sit around the hospital the last few days. Come here." 

He raised his gloved hands and she turned her back to him. Even through the gloves, his fingers were warm and certain, loosening the tense muscles that ran down her neck and into her shoulders. She leaned back into his touch and sighed. 

When he'd finished the impromptu massage, Sherlock said, "Since we don't have John to slow us down, let's go up the hill, hmm?" Most of the town itself lay to the southwest of their cottage, and they hadn't explored much in the other directions. 

Now they turned and walked up the hill, away from town. Mary knew her pace was slowing Sherlock, but that was okay. Hadn't that been half the reason for moving out here in the first place? She took his hand in hers so he wouldn't be tempted to walk any faster. 

After a half-mile or so, the hilly land flattened out, and the houses along the road started to come more frequently. They walked for a while longer, and Mary was about to suggest turning back—they could go faster on the way downhill, and John wouldn't have been left alone for too long—when Sherlock lifted his head, suddenly alert. Mary listened, trying to figure out what had caught his attention. Ah—a dog barking—that had to be it. She knew that he was plotting to get a dog himself, though for some reason he thought she would veto the idea. She wouldn't, but she couldn't promise that she wouldn't also adopt a cat when he finally made the trip to the animal shelter.

He glanced over at her, eyebrows raised. 

"All right, we can go visit one dog and then we're going back to John, okay?"

They walked past three more houses without seeing any dogs, though there was a man about their age pulling weeds from a small flower garden in front of the third house. He stood and turned to wave as they approached, then trotted out to meet them. 

"Hello!" He slipped off his gardening gloves as he spoke, though they weren't standing close enough to shake hands. "You must be the new couple that bought the old Fairfield cottage."

Mary glanced up at Sherlock, who was staring at him, blinking, clearly at a loss for words. She knew when he did think of something to say it was likely to be either extremely rude or extremely inappropriate, so she smiled at the man and gave the simplest possible explanation. "Actually, there are three of us who bought the cottage, but my husband John just had knee surgery so he's laid up for a bit. I'm Mary, by the way, and this is Sherlock." She lifted her hand that was still holding Sherlock's and watched the man as he tried to make sense of what she'd just said.

Before the man could ask any more questions—or give his own name—Sherlock's phone began to buzz. He dropped Mary's hand and pulled it from his pocket, though the ringtone wasn't John's. She frowned for a moment, wondering who else he would possibly bother to answer, then realized who it must be. "Mycroft?"

Sherlock nodded, staring at the phone screen. She motioned at him to answer it, and he swallowed and pressed a finger to the screen, then turned his back on their new neighbor and began to walk quickly back the way they had come. 

Mary shrugged at the man. "Sorry. His mum's been very ill," she said, and ran off after Sherlock. They could meet the barking dog some other time.

She heard Sherlock's side of the conversation, though it didn't reveal much. When he'd clicked off the phone and dropped it into his pocket she reached for his hand again, and he didn't refuse.

"I—Mycroft says I need to get there. He's sending a car." He slowed his pace just enough for her to keep up. "I think he assumes I'm too distressed to drive myself."

She watched him bite at his lip, betraying that he was in fact quite distressed. She tightened her grip on his hand. "Is she—"

"Not yet, but it won't...." He stopped talking and inhaled and she thought he was done, which was fine, she didn't need to press him for details, but a moment later he blurted, "I don't want to go."

"Oh, Sherlock." She stopped walking and he halted as well, twisting his hand back and forth within her grasp but not actually trying to pull away. "I'm sorry, but—"

"I know. I have to. But I don't want to. He said—Mycroft said she's failing fast, but she's conscious and I don't want to see her because she's not even going to know who I am and I already can't forget that and I don't want to see it again and—" 

"Hey." She cut him off, stepping up close and wrapping her arms around him. She could feel his heart thudding even through his coat. "I know you don't want to go, but you don't have to do it alone. John and I will go with you."

She saw him brighten for a moment and then deflate. "John has his first physio appointment tomorrow morning."

He was right, of course. It was nearly evening now, so by the time they got to the care home she and John would have to turn around and come back. Sherlock would have to go alone today. She hugged him closer. "We'll leave as soon as he's done tomorrow," she told him, head turned so she wasn't speaking directly into his chest. "Have Mycroft send another car—a big one with room for John to stretch his leg."

Sherlock nodded, his chin bumping her forehead. After a moment he pulled away from her, scrubbing a hand across his face. "Maybe she'll think I'm my father again. At least that made her happy." He sighed and straightened his shoulders and took Mary's hand again and they began to walk down the hill toward home.


End file.
